Can We Believe
by Quicksliver
Summary: One sentence started a movement. A movement John's not sure he believes in anymore. Sequel to 'We Believe'.
1. The Reveal Part One

**Title:** Can We Believe  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for RBF, Mentions of 'supposed' character death,  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, mentions of Mycroft Holmes, mentions of Mrs. Hudson.  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Sherlock/John, Greg/Molly, Raz/OFC  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Sequel to 'We Believe'. Read that **first**! You won't understand this at all if you don't. Thanks to Princess_Aleera for the beta and summary help and Jademac2442 for her teacher's touch!  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?  
><strong>Summary:<strong> One sentence started a movement. A movement John's not sure he believes in anymore.

* * *

><p>The paper shopping bags are heavy in Greg's arms, but he can't help the big, stupid grin on his face as he tries to juggle them while reaching for his key. His Key. To Molly's flat. The smile gets a touch wider as he slides it into the keyhole. Molly's flat that maybe, at some point, could be his flat too. Though he thinks they'd have to re-paint. All of the colours are so neutral and flat, and now that he knows Molly the way he does he's aware of just how much they don't fit her.<p>

He's decided to surprise her with dinner, because she deserves it and he got off of work early. Molly always seems so pleased when he does little romantic things, and he thinks that this will make her that much more excited. Homemade lasagna, a few romantic candles, nice wine…

God, he's got it bad. But the smile she gets during the little things always makes him absurdly happy, so why not go all out? And it's not like she knows just how he feels about her.

Maybe he'll tell her after dinner.

That familiar warm feeling fills his chest and he whistles a little as he pushes the door open, kicking it shut behind him with one foot and walking to her bright, white kitchen.

Where he finds John Watson standing quietly, one hand wrapped in a pristine bandage and wearing the same clothes Greg had seen on him the night before, when he'd trudged to bed and called a soft 'Night, John' down the stairs. Old jeans and one of the tamer jumpers, his green jacket slung over the back of one of Molly's kitchen chairs.

A thousand thoughts rush into Greg's head as he stares at his flatmate, who blinks back at him.

"Greg." John's eyes widen. "No, Greg, it's really not what it looks like."

Greg stares and puts his grocery bags on the table, feeling really, truly old for the first time in months. He can't feel the warmth from before, just a sudden drop in his stomach like he's plummeting down the largest drop on a roller coaster. It's a sickening feeling.

"No?" He asks, and John shakes his head.

"No, Greg, I would never—"

"Because it _looks_ like you've spent the night." And it's Katherine all over again. He leans against the table, he can feel his legs buckling under him and _god_ does this _hurt_. This is so much worse, because it isn't some random P.E. teacher. It's _John_.

"I know that's what it looks like, but that's not it. I swear, Greg, I wouldn't do that to you." His flat mate's tone is soothing if not a little bit panicky.

"Then what is it?" Now he feels the unfamiliar swell of rage, which had never been there with Katie. It had always been a dull, resigned acceptance instead of this fierce, uncontrollable fury. But Molly isn't Katie. Molly is sweet and soft and looks both amazed and embarrassed and so, so pleased when he shows up at the morgue with a bouquet of lilies. "What is it, John?"

"I believe I can answer that question, Detective-Inspector," a voice says in the most serene tone he's heard in a long while, and Greg turns his head ever so slightly to see.

It's Sherlock. 'Boffin' Sherlock Holmes is leaning in the kitchen doorway, staring at him with a quirked eyebrow and that stupid, 'I'm-so-bloody-smart' smirk. His face is a mess of colourful bruises and Greg can spot at least two stitched gashes, and he's wearing a loose grey hoodie and worn jeans, but it is without a doubt Sherlock. Even if his hair is ridiculously bleached and cropped short.

Greg stares for a moment, then turns and looks at John. "You're seeing that, yeah?" John nods sharply and leans on his cane. "No, I'm serious. You see that."

"Yeah, Greg. I do." John looks more tired than Greg has ever seen him, and that might be the most terrifying part of this whole thing.

He turns, slowly, to take Sherlock in right and make sure he hasn't missed some sort of elaborate facial reconstruction that'll make this man in front of him _not_ who he looks like.

"You're alive," he whispers.

"Clearly your deductive reasoning has improved," Sherlock mutters dryly.

He stands there, just staring, for a good thirty seconds or so. Then he lunges forwards and clocks Sherlock firmly in the jaw. The connection of fist to skin is brief but intensely satisfying.

The detective staggers and nearly falls on his arse, but manages to catch the doorframe with his spindly fingers and haul himself back up. Greg glowers.

"You stupid, idiotic, self-absorbed _git_!" Greg yells, clenching his fists as a form of physical restraint. John's taken a half step towards him, but his face is surprisingly neutral. "We _buried_ you! We thought you were _dead!_"

"John." Sherlock looks at the blogger with a strange mix of anger and calm acceptance that looks like it hurts his face. "Explain to the Detective why the ruse was necessary."

John shakes his head, and he leans against the counter as if it's the only thing holding him up. "Not this time, Sherlock. You can explain yourself."

The rather tense quiet that follows is broken by Molly opening the door, a plastic shopping bag dangling from her fingers and her cheeks red from the cold. "I've brought crisps like you asked, Sherlock, I—" She stops, looks at the three of them standing silent in her kitchen, and visibly pales. "Oh."

"You knew about this?" Greg shakes his head and walks to her, putting his hands on her shoulders and giving a tiny, nervous smile. "How long did you know, though?" Molly doesn't reply, and she won't meet his eyes, and Greg finds himself rambling like she usually does. It's a strange role reversal. "He just swept in all dramatic-like last night and did one of his bloody speeches, right?"

Molly raises her eyes to his, but her expression doesn't change. He feels his smile fade slowly. "Right?"

"I'm so sorry, Greg, I—" He lets go of her quickly and turnsto John, who shakes his head again.

"So, let me sort this, because I'm having a bit of a hard time." He crosses his arms and feels himself bristle a bit. He jerks his head in Sherlock's direction. "You've been waltzing around London for a year—"

"I wouldn't call it 'waltzing'—"

"—You knew about it the whole time." He jabs a finger in Molly's direction, and she flinches. "And you…" He turns to look at John, who is smiling bitterly.

"Found out last night when I spent a few hours stitching him up." John replies. "I was going to call you, but I passed out before I could dial."

Greg accepts that pretty easily. John wouldn't have been so… lifeless, if he'd known Sherlock was alive. He meets the doctor's gaze easily. "Feel like a pint?"

"God yes," John mutters, and limps past Sherlock, his shoulder bashing roughly against the detective's. Sherlock gives a visible wince and moves when Greg follows his flatmate.

"Greg…" Molly whispers, but he doesn't turn. He can't deal with it right now.

* * *

><p>They're sitting in their usual booth at the Globe before either one of them speaks, and John's half-done with his drink before they get to the actual topic.<p>

"Ask away, and I'll do my best to explain." He twists his glass on its coaster, fidgeting.

"What the bloody fuck, John?"

John explains, even though he told Sherlock he wouldn't. Explains Jim Moriarty's threat to kill the three people Sherlock truly cares about, Greg included (and while Greg's still unbelievably pissed off about all this, that makes him smile a touch), unless Sherlock jumped to his death. He describes the way Sherlock did it with far less enthusiasm than his former flatmate would, his tone dull and his eyes fixed on the table.

Greg takes it all in, thinks for a moment on the proper reaction, and then downs the rest of his beer. "Shit."

"Yeah," John nods. "And then this morning 'round three I got a call from Molly, saying a friend of hers was hurt and needed a doctor, and she didn't know who else to call. I go over, and who do I see?" John laughs, but it's not an amused sound. "Sherlock bloody Holmes. I nearly passed out."

Greg raises a hand in Marty the Bartender's direction, signalling for another round. "He looked pretty beaten up."

"Didn't stop you from punching him, did it?" John smirks at him, and Greg feels his ears turn red.

"Yeah, well…" There's really nothing else to say, so he just thanks Marty under his breath and takes the cold glass in one hand. "Know what I think?"

"Enlighten me."

"I think we should finish this round, take a cab to the liquor store, go back to the flat and get piss drunk."

John gazes at him for a moment before nodding. "Agreed."

* * *

><p>So they do that. Greg buys enough whiskey to drown a fish and John just grins when he plunks it in the seat between them.<p>

* * *

><p>It's near ten when the flat door opens and loud, light footsteps tromp in. Greg blurrily turns to look up from his spot on the couch, neck of the whiskey bottle dangling between his fingers and mobile staring accusingly from the coffee table. Five missed calls and nine texts from the lovely miss Molly Hooper, and each time she rings he takes another pull from his bottle and ignores John's raised eyebrows. They've only got a single table light on in the corner, because John thinks it's the right amount of illumination for depressed drinking, and after six shots of the swill Greg bought he can't help but agree.<p>

It's Sherlock, of course. He's still in the hoodie and jeans and he still looks like he's gone a few rounds with a meat grinder, but the air of righteous superiority is rolling off him once again.

"Charming," Sherlock mutters, and isn't he a right prick. Righteous superiority doesn't go far in a room where the only other occupants are drunk off their arses.

"You're a righ' prick." Greg slurs, and he can't help but giggle a bit. John starts at the sound and sits up a little in his chair, which is as far away from where Sherlock used to sit as it can be. "Seriously. Sherlock Fucking Holmes, consulting prick." 'Seriously' becomes 'Sherioushly' and 'consulting' 'conshulting', but Sherlock's a genius and Greg's sure the point has gotten across.

"Thank you, Detective-Inspector, for reminding me why I don't drink."

"No problem." He laughs. John sits up and, with surprisingly good aim, hurls his empty bottle in Sherlock's direction. The Detective edges to the side and it misses by a hair's width, shattering against the wall behind him. Greg gives a rather enthusiastic cheer—it was a good shot—and raises his own bottle in salute.

"Go away!" John shouts. Greg thanks Christ that Mrs. Hudson is off visiting her sister for the weekend.

"Ain't your flat anymore, mate." Greg's always been told that his slang gets worse when he drinks, but he can't be arsed to care much when Sherlock has an expression of pure confusion on his face. "John's got a new roomie, don't he? Go back to Molly. 'M sure she'll welcome you back with _open arms_." Oh, that was a bit sharp, wasn't it? "Seeing as how she's in love with you, and whatnot."

"'Ey!" John swats him with one hand. "Molly's a sweetheart. An' she loves _you, _and whatnot."

Greg snorts into his bottle.

"I'm serious!" John insists. "Besides, Sherlock wouldn't do anything. Emotion is beneath him." Sherlock doesn't give any outward reaction to that. Greg kind of wishes he had.

"I am, currently, standing in the room," Sherlock mutters, taking his scarf off with a sneer. "In case your eyes are having issues focusing properly."

"Oy, don't get comfortable!" Greg yells, jabbing a finger at the git with a frown. The room seems to sway from side to side. "We didn't invite you to stay! And this is _our_ flat, thanks. _You_ don't pay rent."

"Yea'! If any Holmes is gonna live here, it's Mycroft."

Greg bursts into laughter, and John follows a moment after. The idea of Mycroft Holmes living in 221B is hysterical.

Sherlock just stares at them. "I'm going to bed," He finally growls, and strides in the direction of his old room.

"'Ey! Cheekbones! No, no, no!" Greg hauls himself up, staggers, regains his balance and manages to clamp the hand not holding his whiskey onto Sherlock's shoulder. The detective shakes him off with a hiss that Greg easily ignores, and he fixes Sherlock with the most pissed off glare he can arrange on his face, which feels like it's moving a touch too slow. "That is John's room, all righ'? You don't get to sleep in John's room."

"John's room." Sherlock sounds strange. "Interesting."

John murmurs something from his chair in the corner and Greg can hear the sharp clink of glass on glass, then a soft pop as the top of another whiskey bottle is removed.

"You can go back to Miss Milly's and sleep over there, you hear?"

"Molly's." John calls.

"Eh?"

"You said 'Milly's'." John giggles. "It's Molly's. Molly. Molls."

"I see you've forgone glasses in your little binge of self-indulgence." Sherlock crosses his arms, and Greg suddenly wants to punch him again. John interrupts the idea just in time.

"'Ey, Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"What's more self indulgent," John starts, pauses to take a swig from his fresh bottle, then smacks his lips together and grins. "Spending a night with your mate getting pissed, or pretending to jump off a building to kill yourself?"

"Well that all depends, John," Greg stumbles a little before collapsing back on the couch, which wheezes under his weight. He drains the last of his bottle and reaches for another. "Did the best friend have to watch the guy jump?"

"Oh yeah, he was a wreck," John answers jovially.

"And did he stay 'dead' for almost a year?" He swings his legs up over the arm of the chair and lets his feet dangle over the edge. Sherlock hasn't moved, and his face hasn't shifted a fraction. Cool detachment, haughty indifference. Greg wonders if Sherlock's _always_ been this much of a prick, if he hadn't noticed it before, or if it's just the whiskey making him think that.

"I think so. Something like eleven months and eighteen days."

Greg pretends to think on it for a few moments, then nods. "Huh, I'm gonna go with option 'B', John."

Sherlock turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

"Nice to see you, too!" Greg screams after him before sipping his whiskey. John laughs.

* * *

><p>"To Mycroft Holmes, for paying our rent!" John calls and bumps his half-done bottle against Greg's before taking a hearty chug. Greg's got his arm slung around John's shoulders and takes a half-hearted swig of his own before setting it shakily on the table. He's done. His vision is swimming even when he's just sitting and he can't feel his face anymore, and that to him is a sign to lay off.<p>

John slumps against him, and for a second Greg worries that the other man's passed out and he's going to have to attempt to carry him to his room. Then John shudders a little and whispers, "I don't understand."

Greg doesn't ask what he means because he doesn't have to. "I know. I don't either."

"I mean, I get it." John mutters. "But I don't _understand_. Does that make any sense?"

Greg shakes John's shoulder a tad. "No, mate, it makes perfect sense." He finds himself nodding rapidly. "Cause it's like, you get the why, but not the _why_, right?"

"Exactly!" John crows, and he slams his bottle on the table next to Greg's. "I get why! But why?" He leans in close to Greg's ear and whispers: "Do you wanna know a secret?"

"Yeah." Greg tries to sound like he's conspiring but just comes off drunk.

"Promise you won't tell?"

"I promise. You know me better than that." It's weird to be able to say that to someone. Greg doesn't have many people who he counts as friends, and most of them followed Katie after the divorce. The ones who are left treat him differently after the whole 'Sherlock incident', all of them were coppers and few of them understood why he'd cleared the arrogant man's name.

John sighs a little. "I don't hate him."

"That's a stupid secret. I knew that." Greg rolls his eyes.

"Well if you stopped talkin' and let me finish," John growls, and Greg laughs. "…I don't hate him, because I think I'm in love with him."

Greg reaches for his bottle. Maybe not _quite_ drunk enough. "Knew that too." He gives John's shoulder a light squeeze.

"See if I tell you anything again."

Greg can't help the grin that slides over his face. "So, he thinks of me as a friend?"

"Don't be stupid, of course he does." John sits up on his own, and Greg's arm slides off his shoulder. "Could you really not tell?"

"The git didn't know my first name, and I knew him over six years."

The blogger barks out a laugh and takes another drink. "He didn't know the earth revolved around the sun." More laughter. "Out of everyone in Scotland Yard, he insulted you the least. _And_ he bought you a Christmas gift."

"_You _bought me a Christmas gift." Greg rolls his eyes.

John blinks at him as if he's surprised Greg knew. "Well yeah, but he _let_ me. I tried to buy a gift for Mycroft and he practically ripped my arm out of its socket."

They laugh together about that, and it's warmer than either of them can remember from recent months. They enjoy a companionable silence, before Greg breaks it to ask a rather pressing question that seems more important than anything to his whisky-saturated brain.

"Why'd you try to by Mycroft something for Christmas?"

"It was before the twelfth kidnapping, so…"

The laughter is a little more heartfelt, and Greg takes another sip of whiskey to try and erase the realization that they've been talking about Sherlock in the past tense.

* * *

><p><em>Bad boy! Whatcha want, whatcha want, what you gonna do?<em>

"Shut up," Greg moans.

_When the sheriff John Brown come for you?_

Greg doesn't even have to open his eyes to know it would be a mistake, but the phone is singing at him and if he doesn't press some sort of button soon it will probably never stop. He inwardly curses John Watson and his joke ring tones.

Pain. Oh god, that is a lot of pain.

_Bad boys bad boys, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?_

He gropes along the edge of the table until his fingers meet cold plastic. He mashes his thumb in the general area of the 'talk' button and presses it to his ear.

" 'Ello?" He whispers, and even that makes him want to throw up. His throat feels like it's been scrubbed with sandpaper, and his hand is shaking.

"_Greg?_ " Molly. Fuck.

"Ahhh…" He makes a slow, halting movement up until he's sitting on couch. John's passed out on the floor with his face smashed against the wood grain. "Molly. Hi."

"_Are you all right? Is everything okay? Sherlock said you and John were really drunk, and I thought you might've passed out and choked on your own vomit or slipped and hit your head off something and I was going to call the hospital but Sherlock said to call you first, and—_"

"Molly. Shhh." Greg wishes he could feel more annoyed with her, but all he can register is weariness and pain. His head throbs in time with his pulse. He scrubs his hand over his eyes and presses down. "We're fine."

"_Are you sure? Because I can still call—_"

"Fine, Molly. We're fine. No one's dead or choking on—" even thinking the word 'vomit' makes his stomach lurch. "We're fine."

And now comes the uncomfortable silence that Greg hates, and he just focuses on trying to push the pain of his head away. He stands up and steps carefully over John, who seems perfectly all right passed out on the floor. His stomach lunges up and he swallows back the sudden foul taste in his mouth. His tongue feels like a furry caterpillar.

The sound of the tap makes his head throb in protest, but he fills the closest mug with cool water and nearly moans over the phone at how delightful and refreshing it feels in his raw throat. He vaguely recalls singing at the top of his lungs with John, but can't remember the song.

"_Can we talk?_" Right, Molly's still on the line. He leans his head against the fridge. It feels amazing, cool and firm.

"I'm not up to it at the moment," he whispers. His heart is pumping a little faster than it should. He fills the cup again and downs it with greedy joy.

"…_Okay. No, I understand._" The tone of her voice makes him want to reach out and hug her. It's probably better that he can't. "_You're all right, though?_"

"Besides the massive hangover, yeah. I'm peachy." He finds quite soon after that that snorts of derision are not a good idea, when a nasty spike of pain drives itself into the middle of his brain. He winces. "Only found out that the guy I've spent a good year defending while trying to clear his name isn't dead, and that my girlfriend who was infatuated with him for five years was letting him stay in her flat and forgot to tell me he was alive." He hears her takes a shaky breath, but can't stop the words tumbling from his lips. "Then I got totally smashed with my flatmate, who I've been expecting to drop dead of malnutrition or sleep deprivation—which ever one hit him first—for months, and now I've got a massive hangover and I might—"

He clutches the side of the sink, leans over and retches. Retches in a way he hasn't since he was in college, when Katherine Ambler was a pretty thing with eyes only for him and the grey in his hair was a distant possibility.

When there's a pause in his heaving, he presses the phone to his ear and mutters, "I'm going to have to call you back."

He hangs up and goes back to the very important task of puking up his vital organs.


	2. The Reveal Part Two

**Title:** Can We Believe (2/11[?])  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for RBF, Mentions of 'supposed' character death, angst, men being silly and stubborn.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Raz, Various OC's, Mentions of Sebastian Moran  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> John/Sherlock, Greg/Molly, Raz/OFC  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Looks like this is going to be a lot longer then We Believe, around 11 chapters if everything goes to plan. Which it often doesn't, so we'll see what happens. Standing betas Princess_Aleera and Jademac2442 are to praise for making it readable. Love you guys! Giant thanks to all of you for reading (And waiting while Real Life made it hard to update).  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?  
><strong>Summary:<strong> One sentence started a movement. A movement John's not sure he belives in anymore

* * *

><p>John can't help but think that this is a really, really bad idea.<p>

It'd be bad enough if he and Greg looked healthy, but Greg's face is pale and he keeps absently covering his eyes with one hand as if that's going to help his hangover. John knows how he himself looks too; ashen skin and red-rimmed eyes, but at least he's not throwing up anymore so he counts that as a bonus.

Mrs. Hudson sits quietly in front of him at her kitchen table, looking apprehensive. She's biting her bottom lip slightly and looking between the two of them. She's only just gotten back from her sisters and John practically pounced on her when she walked in the door, taking her bag and setting it by the stove before asking her to _please_ sit, because he and Greg had something important to tell her. Now she just looks worried. She fiddles with the cuff of a rather nice green dress and shifts in her seat.

"Did someone pass on while I was away?" She asks, and John shakes his head. His stomach rolls in protest at the motion. "John, you can tell me. I'm not going to break." Tears well in her eyes. "Who?"

"No one passed away, Mrs. Hudson." Greg's pressing his palm against one eye again, talking as softly as he can while still being heard. John's head throbs. "We promise, all right? We just need to tell you something and we thought it'd be better to hear…"

"Sitting down." John finishes. It's not a great reason, but he and Greg agreed (while brushing the taste of yesterday's lunch out of their mouths) that they are not going to let Sherlock swoop in and give poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.

She looks between them before settling her gaze on John. "Dear, have you been drinking? You look awful." He nearly giggles at absurdity of it all, but she puts a hand over his and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Let me make you a cuppa, hmm? You both look like you could use one. Earl Grey?"

He catches her hand before she gets out of her seat. "No, Mrs. Hudson. It's fine. Just…Let us tell you what's going on, and then Greg will put the kettle on and we can all have some tea." John gives her a shaky smile. Greg nods absently from behind his hand.

"…All right." She sits back a little in her seat and stares at them, and suddenly her face brightens. "Oh, I see!"

John blinks at her, confused, then looks at Greg, who's lowered a hand enough to see her properly.

"See…What?" Greg sounds about as confused as John feels.

"Well, I've been wondering how long it was going to take you two, you've been living together long enough." Her face becomes stern, and she shakes a thin finger in Greg's direction. "Though I do hope you've broken it off with poor Molly before doing anything indecent, Greg Lestrade. No one deserves that kind of heartbreak, especially not a lovely girl like her."

"I…What?" Greg's jaw is actually hanging open, and it looks like he's not shutting it any time soon. "I'm sorry, _what?_"

John feels a bit of private glee that the Detective-Inspector is on the receiving end of this for once. Watching the other man splutter and desperately try to say something is almost worth Mrs. Hudson thinking John's gay. Again.

Though he can't stop thinking about that… whatever that was, in Molly's kitchen, with Sherlock looking so tired it was a shock in itself and his soft, unmoving lips. Not stiff, more… Tentative? Unknowing? John's always wondered if Sherlock had ever had a relationship, and that… Well. It does nothing to answer his questions.

He holds back a shiver and forces himself to pay attention to what his landlady is saying.

"Well Sher-…" She blinks, goes quiet for a second, then continues. John holds back a wince of sympathy. "He's been gone for so long now that it's about time you found someone, John." She's got a firm, reassuring grip on his hand and he wonders how much longer he can just smile at her before Greg manages something coherent.

The rising colour in the DI's face and the way he's sputtering like an overfilled kettle says not much longer, so he decides to just come out with it.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, that's not it." He still feels like death, and the venom churns in his stomach like cement in a mixer, but at least he's gotten some amusement out of this whole thing. "Greg and I are just friends, and he's still with Molly."

Greg's mouth clicks shut, and the red in his cheeks gets a little darker, but he doesn't say anything against the statement and John sees that as a good sign for Molly.

He takes a deep breath. John has toyed with how to tell her since Greg had first brought up the idea, after they'd both finished throwing up but before the eighth glass of water. All sorts of ideas have come to mind, but in the end he decides on the direct approach.

"It's about Sherlock." Well _almost_ direct. He can't be blamed for not just blurting out 'Sherlock's alive'.

"…John." Her face gets that odd, wary look it always does when her former tenant is mentioned, and she moves her hand away from his. Anger at Sherlock flares in his chest but he quells it.

"He's… Ah… alive."

Greg's moved his hand so he can look at their landlady, and John's gaze is unwaveringly fixed on her expression. The expression that fades from wary to surprised, to confused, then becomes… Pitying. This is what he's expected.

"Is he now?" She gives a smile that isn't quite there and pats his hand. "And how is he doing?"

"I've not gone insane, Mrs. Hudson." John sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, shooting Greg a look. Though to be honest, he's been worried that this is all some sort of elaborate plot to make him feel better about having finally cracked. Just a few moments of concern here and there, but he's still not entirely convinced this whole thing is real.

Greg takes the hint. "It's true. The git has been tromping all over the UK for months." The detective waves a hand in John's direction. "John found out about it yesterday morning and I stumbled across it 'round two in the afternoon. It's why we decided to drink on a Monday." He mutters something about being lucky he had today off and slowly sets his forehead on the table. John tries to smile at Mrs. Hudson but only manages to make his frown less intense.

Mrs. Hudson looks from the DI to John and back, then pushes her kitchen chair away from the table. "John, sweetheart, I'm going to take the Detective-Inspector and get him to help me get my bag to my room. My hip, you know." She stands up, and Greg follows, but when John goes to stand up she very gently pushes him back into his chair. "Oh no, I don't need the both of you. You just sit, rest your leg. Don't worry. Everything's fine." She turns and leads Greg into the hall. John rolls his eyes as the door shuts.

He sits for about half a minute before grabbing his cane and quietly limping to the kitchen door. He presses his ear against it.

"…Call me. I could've been home right away to help convince him to go, and I'm sure Mycroft will pay the expenses if we ask politely enough, he feels so terrible about all the unpleasantness. But going along with the delusions of someone who needs professional help is _wrong_, Detective-Inspector. I can't even imagine why you'd _do_ such a thing." She sounds more upset than angry. John sighs from behind the door.

"Mrs. Hudson—" Greg starts. John is grateful for the detective's attempt at support.

"—The poor boy, he's been through so much. I can't imagine what he's going through right now. I expected him to be upset—It's almost been one year, you know—But I thought we'd gotten past the time when he'd break down like this." Now she sounds like she's on the verge of tears, and it makes John's heart break a little. "I was so worried for a while there, but then you moved in and he got much better. But now—"

"—Mrs. Hudson, look, he's not barking, all right? He's fine. Sherlock really is alive, I swear—"

"—You don't have to play along for me, young man, I understand mental illness. Now, I think the best thing to do would be to call Mycroft. He can be brisk at times but he always comes 'round to say hello to me, and I'm sure he'll know somewhere nice and clean."

There is another sound, a familiar sound, which overlaps the tail end of her sentence. John strains to figure out what it is.

"Bollocks." Greg mutters. The hallway outside has gotten very quiet so John decides he's had enough of hiding and pushes the door open.

Three people are standing in the hallway, because the sound was the front door opening.

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are both staring at the entrance, where Sherlock stands in silence and observes them all with cold eyes (which are blue today, because why not?). They warm a bit when he takes in Mrs. Hudson's shocked face, the way her mouth is open ever so slightly.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says, as if nothing at all has happened, as if he didn't spend the past year pretending to be dead. His lips tilt in a tiny smile. John wishes he could just turn and walk off, because despite himself, he wants to walk across the hall and show Sherlock Holmes what a _real_ bloody kiss is like. After smacking him a few times with something heavy. Sherlock's eyes flick to John's and they stare at each other for the briefest of moments. John can see emotion there. A bit of concern, a bit of warmth, and overwhelming interest.

He wonders what Sherlock sees in his gaze, and desperately hopes the answer is nothing at all.

Mrs. Hudson's face loses all colour and her hand clutches the left side of her chest in a desperate, terrified way. And while John and Greg had been joking (for the most part) about their landlady having a heart attack, it suddenly becomes a very real fear in John's mind.

Greg is by her side in an instant, one hand on her elbow and the other curled around her waist, and John hobbles close in case he's needed and pushes his own conflicting thoughts away—venom and want, duelling in his mind. Sherlock looks a little concerned and takes a half-step closer, hand extending towards his former landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John hears the edge of panic in Greg's tone and can't help but echo it in his own head. "Are you all right? Come on, let's sit you down." He tries to move her towards the kitchen but she is firmly planted, refusing to move. Her usually clear eyes are hazy with emotion.

John watches her face clear, her hand lower from its place over her heart, and feels a surge of relief.

"I'm fine, Greg. Don't you worry." She sounds shaky, but she shrugs Greg's arm off and steps closer to Sherlock, who hasn't budged.

She walks slower than is absolutely necessary until she's standing right in front of Sherlock, whose frown is intense and guarded. He lowers his hand back to his side. Mrs. Hudson raises a finger and jabs him in the chest once, firm and poignant.

John resists the urge to step closer.

"I assure you Mrs, Hudson, I'm not the by-product of one of your soothers." Sherlock's tone is smooth. His lips twitch into a soft smile.

John sees what's about to happen and winces just before her hand flies up and slaps Sherlock across the face. It's not hard enough to send him staggering like Greg's punch, but it's firm and must have stung. Sherlock's expression changes to one of baffled distress.

"Knew there was a reason I loved her," Greg says. Sherlock is blinking rapidly at his former landlady, who immediately grabs onto Sherlock's sleeve and pulls him towards the kitchen.

"You look awful, dear. Haven't you eaten while you've been away?" She opens the door and Sherlock disappears behind it, leaving John and Greg holding back dual grins in the hall. "I'll fix you some stew, and then we can talk about where you've been. I'm sure it's quite the tale."

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes has never been in this particular position before.<p>

He watches his little brother walk towards his office on the screen that shows the hallway's CCTV, fingers tented together, eyes fixed on the swirling coat and easy strides. Mycroft is modestly proud at how well his little brother hides the severity of his injuries, the look of impolite dismissal as he passes others in the hall, the way he barely falters when a messenger crashes into his wounded right shoulder.

Mycroft shuts the laptop screen just as his office door opens and Sherlock breezes in.

The brothers stare at one another in absolute silence, Sherlock standing in the doorway and Mycroft studying him from behind his massive mahogany desk. It's a strange feeling, doing something that he never thought would happen again, seeing someone he buried in the earth almost a year ago standing in his office.

He inwardly wishes he'd put more surveillance on Molly Hooper, but considering the brisk way his brother had spoken to the demure woman… Well. Mycroft had considered her a non-event. As it was, they'd stuck to infrequent monthly drive-bys and the occasional false door-to-door salesman. He makes a mental note to get a camera installed.

"Drink?" He finally asks, standing to get the whiskey. Whiskey that is infinitely more expensive than the four bottles purchased by Greg Lestrade on Monday.

"If it's decent, yes. If not you can keep it, I'm not in the mood for anything less than _utter_ sophistication."

Now Sherlock is just being difficult. They both know Mycroft Holmes would only buy whiskey of the highest quality. He decants the clear amber liquid with a slight smile. "Seen enough debauchery from the owners of 221B, have you?"

"John has impressive aim, even when heavily intoxicated." Sherlock takes the glass in his long, thin fingers and swirls the contents before taking a brief sip, lowering himself into one of the luxurious leather chairs Mycroft offers for guests. The older Holmes doesn't miss the way Sherlock lists to his left, nor does he overlook the slight hitch in his breathing as he jostles a tender spot, but Mycroft refrains from commenting.

"So you're alive." He sips his own drink, eyebrows raised. Sherlock gives a sharp nod.

"It would seem so. No thanks to you." Mycroft doesn't comment on that either, in part because there's nothing he can say to appease his sibling but mainly because he is very, very aware that what Sherlock says is the truth. He refuses to admit that, however.

"Have you told mummy?" He already knows the answer, but stalling for time to think is necessary when one isn't sure how to proceed.

"Not yet. I suppose I'll have to before I go public."

They're quiet for a moment.

"Your hair looks atrocious," he snipes. And it really, truly does.

"Your diet _still_ isn't working," Sherlock retorts.

They sip their whiskey in silence, staring at one another. The feeling in the room is…strange. Unlike them. It's quiet and reserved and reminds Mycroft of when they were younger, before the resentments built up to the point where neither man was willing to indulge the other in any respect and the only time they were truly civil to one another was during forced reunions initiated by their mother.

"Am I correct in deducing that you are the 'rogue element' that's been destroying Moriarty's empire?" The reports have been crossing his desks with increasing frequency the past few months, and each time he'd felt an odd pang of satisfaction. He'd held back orders for his teams to search for the person because of that pang, the little hint that he still cared despite himself.

"Quite. Though all the important parts have been dealt with. I'm sure your underlings can handle the fringe outposts without too much trouble." Sherlock crosses his legs, and Mycroft wonders if his brother is pleased to be in his own clothes once again. The first glimpse of him on file had been him walking down Baker Street in the dead of night wearing street clothes, then leaving 221B about ten minutes later with an intense frown. The footage follows him all the way to Molly Hooper's apartment complex.

Mycroft has watched that footage far more than he cares to think about.

"I wonder, brother." Mycroft sets his drink down on his desk, leaning forwards with a frown. "If you've eliminated _all_ the important players?"

"If you're attempting to extract information on Sebastian Moran, you may as well just ask." Sherlock seems suddenly engrossed in his glass.

Mycroft sighs. "Did you manage to dispatch the Colonel?"

"When I said all of the important parts had been dealt with, I meant it, Mycroft." Sherlock says it a little sharply, and it's almost like they've gone back in time; Sherlock sounding venomous and haughty while Mycroft struggles to maintain his composure. "Sebastian Moran has been reduced to his basic particles. A gunshot to the temple is hardly something one recovers from."

"Much like a four-story fall."

"The fall isn't what causes the physical damage that leads to death," Sherlock responds. "It's the landing."

"You were very convincing. Even doctor Watson believed your death was legitimate."

Sherlock's body goes perfectly still. "I'm aware."

Mycroft files that away for another time, when he can give it the attention it deserves. Very few things in this world make Sherlock Holmes slow down, let alone stop. "I doubt he was interested in your methods."

"That is an extraordinary understatement."

"If you have the time, I'm rather ardent to hear how you managed it."

They sit for two hours while Sherlock explains the whole affair with an air of snobbish enthusiasm. Mycroft misses an important meeting (the Prime Minister has an issue with the new Government reforms) and one conference call with the Syrian Ambassador.

Mycroft Holmes isn't terribly bothered.

* * *

><p>Mel's pale green eyes are bright Raz pulls back from their kiss and wiggles his eyebrows, and she swats playfully at his arm.<p>

"Bloody wanker, stop lookin' so chuffed."

"Why? I _am_ chuffed, ain't I?" She snorts at that and shakes her head, and he tilts her chin to give her a quick snog before she opens the door and disappears into her flat. "Can't help lookin' like I am."

"Yeah, Whateva'." She grins at him. "Go on, go keep Holmes alive. 'M sure that Sheppard bloke'll be just as chuffed as you."

"Nope. It ain't possible."

She laughs and vanishes behind the door, back to her flat mates and pot-smoking landlord. She lives in a pretty bad neighbourhood with really good people.

Raz turns and fills his lungs with the cold air of early morning. It's been a good fuckin' night so far. Mel finally let him take her out for dinner and she spent the whole night laughing at his jokes and grinning her wicked little grin when he made fun of the other people eating. And then, when he'd been content to leave it at that and wait for the next date to try anything, _she_ kissed _him_.

He picks up his bag from where he dropped it when they kissed and slings it over one shoulder, slouching off but whistling into the otherwise silent streets.

He notices he's being followed about ten minutes into his wandering, but doesn't turn to tussle with the guy just yet. He's a tall bloke who's far enough away that if Raz turned to try and get his stalker before they did anything he'd be able to run off pretty easy. Raz jerks his hood over his head and tries to make himself smaller then he is—it's always best to look less threatening than you are. Makes whoever's gonna jump you overconfident.

So he slows his pace from a quick walk to a slow one and waits.

Sure enough, the loud echo of footsteps starts to catch up with him about five minutes later. Raz makes a quick turn into an alley off of Mel's street. It's seedy and dirty and Raz immediately feels at home.

He presses against the wall and waits for the footsteps to pause outside the mouth of the alley, trying not to breathe too loud in case he tips the fucker off. He waits till the bloke is a few steps in before springing out, dropping his bag on the ground and pulling out a paint can to use as a weapon.

The taller bloke ducks as Raz brings the can to eye level and knocks it out of his hand like it was nothing. He straightens and pulls back his own hood with a bit of a smile. He's a thin guy, his hair is peroxide blonde and pretty short, but he looks a lot like…

"Raz, you really must stop being so lazy," Sherlock says, and Raz blinks at him. "Weapons can never be trusted to turn the tide during a real fight."

"Ain't you supposed to be six foot under righ' now?" Raz narrows his eyes at this bloke who _might_ be Sherlock.

"That's the misconception, yes." And yeah, that sounds a hell of a lot like the detective.

"But you…Ain't?" Raz turns this idea around in his head a bit before deciding yeah, no one in their right mind would pretend to be Sherlock Holmes. They'd have to be barking.

"Correct." Sherlock gives a short, sharp nod, and he looks a bit put off. Like he's expecting Raz to yell at him or cuss him out.

"Well." Raz just looks at him, then breaks into a grin. "Welcome back, Holmes." He sticks out a hand that the detective takes, then pulls the dead man into a one-armed hug. When he lets go Holmes looks pretty bloody pleased with it all.

"Thank you, Raz." He claps a hand on Raz's shoulder and smiles.

* * *

><p>Sherlock has timed it perfectly, it seems. He's just managed to settle himself in the comfortable chair and turn to face the window when the elevator in <em>The Planet<em>'s offices slides open behind him. He shifts a bit and listens, glancing sideways at the clock on the office's wall. Five thirty-two. Short, quick steps. Rhys Sheppard is a morning person.

The door to Sheppard's office opens but the footsteps end there. Wary. Which means Sheppard has noticed someone resting comfortably in his chair, looking out over pre-dawn London from his picture windows. Interesting.

"Morning," Sherlock drawls, and fights to keep the amusement from his voice. Talking with Raz had been a good warm-up to speaking with the vocal reporter—not being hit in some fashion was encouraging.

Lights flare to life around him, and Sherlock takes a moment to let his eyes adjust. The soft blue of the walls makes the office a cheery place, which seems to fit his loyal reporter's personality well.

"Sitting alone in the dark's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" The reporter sounds wary but amused, and Sherlock can't help the smirk on his face.

"I've been called worse." Sheppard doesn't say anything to that, so Sherlock takes the opportunity to comment on something both appealing and highly entertaining. "I find it interesting that you've got Kitty Reilly's 'farewell article' framed on your wall. Seems a bit vindictive, don't you think?"

Rhys sounds pleased when he answers. "It makes me laugh on a rough day." There's a half step between sentences—The reporter is less wary and more intrigued. Good. Sherlock's grand reveal will have more impact the more interested this reporter is. "And I particularly love how she claims she's leaving because of personal problems, and not because the paper dropped her like a sack of rancid garbage." 'Rancid Garbage' is a rather good line; Sherlock files it away for a later date. Perhaps when talking about Anderson's work. "Which says to me they finally got around actually reading her articles, but that's just a personal belief."

"Yes, I did notice the line about 'private issues' was highlighted." In orange. And underlined with a blue pen.

"It's nice to know exactly where to look when you want a good laugh." There's a rustle behind him, which is either the other man crossing his arms or putting his hands in his pockets. Sherlock thinks it's the first option presented. He stares silently out the window and watches the ever-present traffic coast along London's roadways. "So, why exactly are you sitting in my chair? I worked hard for that chair, it swivels and everything."

Sherlock keeps his tone light, the way John does when he's pointing out something obvious. People seem to respond better then when Sherlock indicates the correct answer, so he's learnt to emulate that when he wants to give a good impression. "I thought you might be all right with standing for a bit, considering I've made your career."

"Funny, you don't _sound_ like John Watson." Sheppard sounds a bit put off, but the curiosity of an investigative journalist cannot be sated. And if anyone can appreciate his dramatic nature (besides John), it will be this ginger-haired man from Northern England.

The chair turns smoothly and without a sound. Sherlock steeples his fingers and peers at the reporter, whose freckled face has become exceptionally sallow. It makes his red hair that much more noticeable. "He would be rather pleased to hear you say that," Sherlock quips, which is true enough. He's not sure of an instance where John would be pleased to be compared to his former flatmate.

For a brief moment he's concerned that Sheppard is going to lose consciousness, but the younger man grips his desk tightly and blinks a few times. Colour returns to his cheeks.

"Either I've been misinformed, or you're a zombie.[,]" Sheppard says softly. "And while you look beaten up enough, zombies usually show up in hordes."

Sherlock didn't think the bruises were still so prominent, but it _has_ only been three days and fourteen hours since his tussle with Moran, so he supposes it's possible he looks worse than previously assumed. He raises an eyebrow. "I can assure you, I am not a zombie. If I were, there would be quite a bit more decay and possibly rigor mortis." He hasn't researched many manners of reanimation in dead tissue, but can think of a few experiments to try when this whole 'reveal' is finished.

"Then I've been misinformed?" Sheppard drops into a chair across from Sherlock and stares at him. Sherlock wonders if it is the same chair John sat in when giving his interview. "Along with the entire country?"

"Grossly misinformed," Sherlock smirks.

Rhys nods at that. He still looks as if he's in shock, but seems to slowly be regaining himself. "Am I right in guessing you're here to set the record straight regarding your 'untimely and public demise'?"

Oh, this reporter is _clever_. Sherlock feels himself grinning. "I quite like that, actually."

"What about…" The reporter seems to chew on something for a moment, then raises his hands as if framing a headline. They tremble slightly, but the man himself is grinning. " 'The Resurrection of a legend-My conversation with Sherlock Holmes.' As a headline?"

"It's not terrible." Sherlock tries to sound less pleased then he is and fails. "Though I must say, it's a little verbose for my taste."

"I'm a reporter? It's bound to be long-winded." Sheppard grins. "So, Mr. Holmes. Care to give me the exclusive?"

"Best take notes."

The immediate click of a Dictaphone is all the answer Sherlock needs, and he settles himself into Rhys Sheppard's swivel chair with a slow, amused smile.


	3. Patching Things Up

**Title:** Can We Believe (3/11[?])  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Spoilers for RBF, Mentions of 'supposed' character death, angst, men being silly and stubborn.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Raz, Various OC's, Mentions of Sebastian Moran  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> John/Sherlock, Greg/Molly  
><strong>Notes: <strong>I'm so, so, so sorry. Real life has been a mess and I've spent most of my time being blocked and horrible and Ugh. I'm sorry. On the upside, I've updated finally and hopefully there won't be another gap like this, since life things have been mostly sorted. Thank you Aly for the beta!  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Sherlock, John, all of their friends and the many places the visit do not belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have to write fanfiction, now would I?  
><strong>Summary:<strong> One sentence started a movement. A movement John's not sure he believes in anymore

* * *

><p>John is alone in the flat.<p>

It's odd. He's never felt truly alone in 221B. There's always Mrs. Hudson or Greg milling about, sometimes Raz, and when they aren't around he's always felt that…

Well, It's stupid. But before he'd always felt Sherlock was there with him. Sitting in his chair, staring out the window into the street below, stepping on the table to make his way to their small kitchen. John stands in the middle of his flat now and can't help but think back on how utterly stupid he's been.

"Shit." He mutters, staring around him. For the first time his flat is actually empty. Greg's off at a crime scene avoiding Molly's calls. Sherlock's at her flat—alive and well and probably driving the poor girl up the wall. Hrs. Hudson is avoiding the reporters at her front door by shopping with a woman from her bingo club.

John's alone.

"Shit." He repeats. His voice sounds far away to his own ears. They shouldn't have left him alone. Now he's not distracted by voices and problems and meaningless, domestic noises. He can think. Can stew.

He doesn't want to.

The first thing he throws is the most obvious—His cane. He grips it by its neck and hurls it like a harpoon into the kitchen, and the rubber end bounces off the fridge with a soft thump. It's terribly unsatisfying.

Next is a mug from the coffee table, and the sound of it shattering against the mantle is a lot more fulfilling then the cane had been. The pieces hit the floor and shatter further and that feels even better.

So he starts venting. Shattering, smashing, hurling things at the wall; it's painful and his leg screams at him. His shoulder shrieks, protesting each violent movement. But he refuses to stop.

When he's done his cheeks are wet and a fair amount of breakable objects have been shattered against the walls, littering the place with glass. The sun casts odd patterns on the ceiling where it reflects of clear shards.

He starts cleaning almost right away. Greg will be home in a few hours and John would feel terrible if the DI stepped on some glass or had to clean it up.

He only nicks his fingers a couple of times, nothing overly serious and nothing to be concerned about.

It does take a while for his hands to stop shaking, though.

* * *

><p><strong><em>(untitled)<em>**

_He's alive._

_He's really, actually alive._

* * *

><p>Greg reads the article over a couple of times, smiling all the while, spooning spagitti into his mouth while John reads a rather large medical text across the table from him. The grey light of early morning catches a few shards of glass on the floor, but Greg doesn't mention them and John seems to not notice.<p>

He's got the day off today. Well, as much as he can. He's on call and has little doubt that his phone is going to buzz with a text at some point in the day. Until then, he's going to enjoy sitting with his flatmate, reading and ignoring the many, many problems that surround them.

The media explosion has been twice as impressive as the one after Sherlock's 'death'—And the majority of attention has been positive. It's interesting to see how quickly the press can change their minds. The horde of reporters has reappeared outside 221B, and a few of them have had the gall to call Greg's phone. Cell or work, it doesn't seem to matter. He just hangs up on them when they call his cell, but when they call at work he's forced into spitting out a polite 'no comment' and trying to bite back his distaste.

Sheppard calls him to chat, and Greg entertains _that_ phone call. Rhys is a good kid and doesn't even ask him for a comment—which is exactly why Greg gives him one.

He's not sure if the kid does it on purpose or if it's just his personality, but the nonchalant, joking personality is magnetic and Greg finds himself saying 'All right, I'll give you one answer. Shoot.'

Sheppard is _very_ good at his job.

Rhys only asks how it feels to know that Sherlock's back, and his tone is light and curious. Greg gives him a one-word answer ("Fantastic', which isn't _quite_ it, but he decides appearances are better then the truth at this point) and that seems to satisfy the reporter.

Which is good, because it's impossible to explain the whirling ball of emotions that ploughs through his brain when he thinks too hard about it, like one of those stampeding herds of zebra on the discovery channel. Which is why he ignores it, most of the time.

There's a soft knock on the door, and John shoots his head up from his book. They've been sitting in silence at the kitchen table for an hour or so, and the break in the stillness is startling.

Greg folds the paper and pushes away from the table, dismissing John's questioning eyes with a wave of his hand. "I'll get it, don't worry."

He opens the door and has to physically stop himself from slamming it shut when he sees who's standing on the other side.

"…Molly." She's wearing a dark red sweater and jeans, and looks really, really good.

"Hi, Greg. Um…Hi." She fiddles with the strap of her purse and stares at the floor; Greg finds his eyes going there as well.

They stand awkwardly in the doorway, not saying anything. It's been three days since they last talked and it feels… Strange, seeing her there, lingering on the landing at the top of the stairs.

"I don't mean to be a bother, or anything," She says in a quiet voice. "I mean, I know you must be busy… I mean... All the reporters… But Sherlock's doing an experiment with sulphur in my kitchen and I can't stand the smell, and I…" She hesitates, then shrugs.

The conclusion to that sentence—'I didn't have anywhere else to go'—Hangs unspoken between them. Greg takes a step back and opens the door a touch wider, and she steps in.

John looks at her for a second, then drops his eyes back to his book. Greg cards his fingers through his silver hair nervously.

Molly slips the straps of her purse through her fingers, over and over, as if the soft leather is going to fix this strange, tense awkwardness. Greg hasn't picked up the phone since their hungover phone call, John hasn't answered her either, as far as Greg knows, and now the three of them are staring at the floor of 221B as if the worn rugs and acid-marred floorboards hold the answers.

The first one to speak, much to Greg's shock, is Molly.

"This is ridiculous." She says sharply, sharper then Greg can ever remember hearing her. "I know I messed up. I always mess up. But… He needed my help." She takes a deep breath, and then speaks in a rush. "I know I should've told you both and I wish I had, I really do, but he made me promise and at the time he was my only actual friend, so I did it. I faked the documents and I lied and I helped him and I kept his secret, just like either of you would've done."

Neither man responds, which gives her a chance to keep at it.

"And then we started going out together, the three of us, and I had actual friends. Not work colleagues who steal my things, or people who date me to get to Sherlock. People who actually seemed to like me. Who seemed to care. And it made lying to you that much harder because I've never had—" She stops, gazes right at John, and when the doctor glances up it's like she's caught him in a snare.

Greg watches as they stare at one another and shifts his weight, uncomfortable with the sudden silence. John abruptly tears his eyes away.

"If you don't want to talk to me anymore," Molly says slowly, her voice quiet once again. "If you don't want to be my friend and you don't want to…Date me, or whatever, then just say it. Tell me to my face instead of ignoring me like this, because I can't take it."

Hr fingers are white against her purse straps as she clutches them to her chest. Greg tries to think of something, anything to say. But the words catch in his throat and he just ends up gaping like a fish at her. Molly. His Molly. Standing in front of them and laying everything bare as if she does it all the time.

He catches John's eye, and the doctor looks about as shocked as Greg feels. His brow is furrowed between the eyes and his biting his bottom lip between his teeth.

Unlike Greg, though, John manages to say something.

"I'm sorry Molly." The Doctor states softly. "I… I understand what you're saying, It's just…"

"Hard." Greg finishes, and they both look at him. "It's hard knowing you didn't tell us. That you knew the whole time and didn't say a thing." He feels his lips purse in an ugly expression and hates himself for it. "Makes me wonder what else has been going on…"

"Nothing! Nothing else has been going on, Greg." She's frowning fiercely at him, and it's so unexpected, so new, that he nearly backs off. Nearly. "He'd show up whenever he needed a place to stay and disappear whenever he wanted. That's all."

"How am I supposed to believe you? You've been lying to me for a year, Molly." And that still stings. Not just because it was Molly who'd been lying—Though that is something that pains him because Katherine did the same thing. Lie—But because he didn't see it. Yet again, a woman he is… 'Involved' with has successfully lied to him.

Greg wonders when his badge stopped saying 'Police' and started saying 'sucker'.

John abruptly stands, hands raised. "Stop it. Both of you." He grabs his cane and hobbles over to them, eyes sharp and warning. "This is ridiculous. Having this argument while I'm sitting right here…" He shakes his head. "Molly, are you sorry?"

Molly answers John with a short nod and glassy eyes. "Yes. I'm so sorry."

John nods back with a tiny smile that doesn't seem quit right. "Then you're forgiven." He raises his left arm invitingly and tiny mortician launches herself into John's embrace. He sets his chin on top of her head and his smile suddenly seems genuine.

"You should forgive Sherlock too, John." Molly's voice is quiet, testing. John doesn't say anything, but Greg sees a flicker of pain cross the doctor's face. "He really is sorry."

John makes a noise low in his throat that is neither dismissive or affirmative, and gently pulls his arm back. "I'm going to go out, see if Raz wants some lunch." The doctor limps over to his coat, pulling it on clumsily. "You two stay here and sort this out, yeah?"

Greg opens his mouth to say something but John cuts him off with a look before turning and walking out, cane making soft thumps against the stairs.

* * *

><p>Molly watches John go with mixed relief and fear. He's gone, and now it's just… The two of them.<p>

She glances at Greg, who is scrubbing his hand through his short hair while the other rests on his hip. He doesn't look at her, instead cups the back of his neck and looks to the ceiling.

"So." She says softly, and when he still won't look at her she can't help a tiny sigh.

"I know why," he mutters. "I get it. You were protecting…. I get it." He finally looks at her, but it's more of a sidelong glance. "I don't bloody _like_ it, but I get it."

She opens her mouth to say something but he waves a hand at her and rubs at his eyes. "I just… I don't know how to…" He makes an odd noise in his throat, like a choked growl, and shakes his head. "I really don't know what to do next. I don't know what questions to ask."

"You can ask anything." The words are rushed, and she knows that. "Anything at all Greg, You can ask anything and I'll answer."

"But will you tell me the truth?" And now he's staring right at her, and she feels her face flush. "You were able to lie to me for a year. A whole year, Molly." He eyes her, and she can see how upset he is. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say?"

* * *

><p>Molly takes a tentative step closer, biting her bottom lip lightly. "Because I have nothing else to hide."<p>

"I don't know that." He mutters. "I tell when people are lying every day. And one... One tiny, quiet girl was able to pull it off for a year." He laughs a little, but he's not amused. "Just like last time."

Molly turns beet red and shakes her head. "I'm not _her_, Greg. I didn't do anything with Sherlock."

"It's not just—" He stops, shakes his head and holds his arms out to either side, trying to show exactly what 'it' is. Even though he can't even put the feeling into words.

"Greg…" She's suddenly right _there_, right fucking _there_, barely and inch of space between them and eyes shimmering like she's going to cry. "I… I love you. And I promise I didn't do anything with Sherlock, and—"

She doesn't get to finish, because Greg presses his lips against her soft ones and pulls her against him with one arm around her waist, the other hand threading his fingers through silky brown hair. He feels her jerk a little in surprise before she kisses him back, slow and soft and so very _Molly_.

He knows that this isn't over, that these problems aren't resolved. Years of marriage has taught him that nothing is fixed with one conversation, but…

"I love you," He whispers, pulling back ever so slightly, drawing in a breath. "I love you Molly."

She beams at him and pulls him in for another kiss.

They'll have to work things out, he knows. Eventually. Not right now.

* * *

><p>When Greg finally says it, John feels his lips quirk into a smile. He leans back from the door that he's had his ear pressed against and bites his lip a little.<p>

He's happy for them. Genuinely, surprisingly happy. He turns and tries to be as quiet as possible as he staggers down the steps—He really dosen't want Greg knowing he was being nosey—And opens the front door.

The reporters only follow him for a block or two before he gets into a cab and gives the driver Molly's address.

* * *

><p>The knock on the door is smart and sharp, and Sherlock feels himself pulled from his revere. He eyes the door and considers his options.<p>

He could ignore the reporter/salesman/cookie-selling-little-girl and return to his mind palace, where the absorbent properties of powdered sulphur are currently being catalogued and stored for later review. Which saves time and means he doesn't have to move from the couch.

He could answer the door, politely tell the person on the other side that Molly Hooper isn't home and wouldn't be interested in their interview proposal/product/delicious chocolate wafers, and then go back to his cataloguing. This requires navigation of ridiculous social niceties and falsifying a smile, which he's not really in the mood for.

Or he could answer the door and ruthlessly mock the individual on the other side until they burst into tears or leave, or both. Of all his options, this prospect is both entertaining and worthwhile, he's actually rather 'keyed up' and could do with some extra mental entertainment.

He's about to settle on the last decision when the addition of new data skews him into different options.

"Sherlock?" John calls through the door.

Sherlock immediately sits up and glares at the door, eyes narrowed. "Say that again." He mutters.

John can't hear him, but as always, he obliges. "Sherlock? I know you're in there, I can smell the sulphur from here."

Sherlock is at the door and opening it before he can process that he intends to, which is both fascinating and a bit worrisome. He fiddles with the chain, notes that his hand is trembling slightly (scared or excited? He'll figure it out later.), and flings the door wide.

John's standing on the threshold, leaning on his cane and staring at him as if he wasn't expecting the door to open. Sherlock schools his face into a neutral expression.

"Come to throw another bottle at me?" A tinge of shakiness on the end of that sentence. Hand is still shaking, heart rate elevated. He takes a deep breath through his nose and disguises it as a snort.

"Do you see me holding a bottle?" John retorts, and Sherlock narrows his eyes. John's dressed as he normally is, comfortable jumper with a bold pattern, slightly worn jeans, green jacket. His hair is slightly mussed, as if he's only recently gotten up (Sherlock acknowledges the endearing look this gives the doctor and then pushes it away in favour of further examination). There are deep purple bags beneath his eyes, a stark contrast to his pallid skin.

"No, though I can imagine at least four ways you could hide it without being immediately noticeable."

John doesn't reply for a second, just stares. He lets out a short breath and gestures with one hand. "I'm just here to check on your sutures."

Sherlock steps to one side, allowing just enough room for John to walk in. The doctor shuffles past and Sherlock shuts the door, latching it behind him.

"Shirt off." John says while limping to the sofa. He pauses and then seats himself on the coffee table, stretching his leg out and kneading the muscle with hard strokes.

Sherlock says nothing, but nor does he move to comply. Suspicion makes his mind shift through possibilities. The most likely he can settle upon is that John, after examining the sutures, will promptly leave and continue this forced exile. His medical conscious would be clear and there would be no cause for him to return.

The doctor shoots a look over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "Sherlock, come on."

Despite his misgivings, Sherlock does as he's told with barely a word. He removes his shirt with stiff, uneasy movements. He already knows that John's stitches are pristine—The doctor is a steady hand and incredibly skilled—but he decides to allow John's streak of perfectionism some satisfaction.

He sits on the couch in front of John, cool air playing over his skin, and begins cataloguing John's physical reactions. Slight pupil dilation, the unconscious way he bites down on his lower lip, the uncomfortable shifting in weight… Signs of physical attraction. Not unexpected, given John's unexpected return to Molly's spare room after The Event In The Kitchen.

The validation was satisfying, though.

John's fingers ran over the bruised skin of cracked ribs in a gentle but strictly medical way. Sherlock flinched. It brings John's gaze up from Sherlock's skin to his eyes for a brief instant.

"Sorry." John mutters, dark blue eyes flaring with something Sherlock has always struggled to identify in normal people before they flick away again.

"It's fine," Sherlock replies. "It's all fine."

John's shoulders stiffen, and it occurs to Sherlock that his attempt at humour was perhaps a bit misled.

"Yeah, you don't look infected." John grips the head of his cane and uses the metal contraption to lift himself up. He stands there a moment, as if he's not sure what to do with himself, then turns and walks towards the door. "Right then, you're sorted."

"John—"

"—Try not to destroy Molly's flat, will you?" Fingers on the doorknob. In the pointless movies Molly watches with misty eyes and a box of tissue, this would be when the hero says something that catches his intended off guard and makes them stay. Or at least forces some sort of confrontation.

But this is not one of those ridiculous movies. There is no rising music, there is no contrived plot devices keeping two people apart. And Sherlock is certainly no hero. "—I—"

"—Cheers." John's out the door before Sherlock has a chance to even get up off the sofa. He watches the door swing shut with a mixture of disbelief, annoyance, and something he doesn't care to analyse at the moment.

This… re-introduction into John's life was going to be more difficult to achieve then originally thought.


End file.
